


Reversing Superlatives

by mycroftgetoffmysheet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Confessions, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Third Star - Freeform, pretense to character death, sherlock is dying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:14:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycroftgetoffmysheet/pseuds/mycroftgetoffmysheet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because today is a special day.  And there are some things that you still don't know yet.</p><p>There are still things I haven't had the chance, nor the resolve, to tell you.</p><p> </p><p>-------------------------</p><p>Inspired by Alone on the Water, this is a letter Sherlock writes to John before his death.  </p><p>Just a short sherlockian-take on Jame's speech in Third Star.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reversing Superlatives

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Alone On the Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/210785) by [Mad_Lori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Lori/pseuds/Mad_Lori). 



> this was just a quick thing– it hasn't been beta'd or had a thorough grammar check, so pardon any mistakes you may see.

_**My Dearest John,** _

 

>  
> 
> You are taking me to Littlehampton beach today.
> 
>  
> 
> You don’t know that I know this, of course. I have been very cautious in making sure that you do not know that I know, and I don’t plan on you ever finding out that I know. Your tearful outburst and the resulting angry sulk you had a few days ago when you finished making me breakfast and accidentally burned your finger on the stovetop made it painfully obvious that my deterioration is starting to take a toll on your mental state. So, while you probably planned it with me in mind, you need this trip more than I. And that’s fine.
> 
> Its all fine.
> 
> Of course, I’m sure that after you read this letter you’ll want to know how on earth I figured it out. To give you credit, I may not have if it weren’t for the phone call with Mycroft I overheard last week when you assumed I was asleep. I had been asleep, but I was momentarily roused by your ludacris techno-pop ringtone. I was half-asleep, but I still overheard you tell Mycroft that you needed a car for today.  Just the car– no driver. Aggravatingly enough though, right after I heard you mention the car I actually did fall back to sleep.
> 
> That’s one of the things I hate most about this insipid disease– the constant and uncontrollable need for my body to sleep.
> 
>   
>  After that, it was rather simple to figure out the rest of your plan. Although I do have to commend you for your efforts in concealing them from me. Deleting your browser history was annoyingly clever of you. I ended up just feigning sleep until you felt comfortable enough to do internet research in the same room. Then I just looked over your shoulder without you noticing.  
> 
> Simple. Easy. Elementary.
> 
> And that brings us here. To today.
> 
> Today, you are taking me to the beach. And it may be the cancer or the dying, but seeing you sulking and lashing out at the most minuscule of stimuli has stuck an unpleasant chord in me.
> 
> It’s made me think.
> 
> So now, I am going to tell you things, John. I’m going to tell you things that have become unbearable for me to push down without letting at least this much boil over. And writing you this letter, whether you ever read it or not, seemed like the best way to do so.
> 
> Firstly– because I know you, John, and I know that if I don’t say it (and let’s be serious, even after I say it) you will try to find a way to rationalize and mistconstrue what is being said– I must state that I know that I’ve been physically ill as of late. But when It comes to matters of the mind I’m as capable as I’ve ever been. So do not for one second doubt the contents of this letter. Don’t write this off as being the desperate ravings of a dying man. I will not have you making excuses for me when I am not around to defend myself. I would tell you that you’re being dull and an idiot and that you are wrong, wrong, wrong.
> 
> I may be a dying man, and I may be a desperate man; but I am merely transcribing the thoughts and feelings and notions that have been roaming around the halls of my mind-palace for an embarrassingly long time. Eventually I was able to sort them out, of course. I’ve stored them in the room that I reserve only for all-things-John: in a lockbox under your bed, beside a hamper where I’ve categorized out your jumpers by color, texture, and scent– if applicable (some of your jumpers are very old, John). I left them locked away and out of sight in that box for a long time, but I’ve never quite been able to delete their presence. I’d hoped that maybe if I incarcerated them long enough, they would wane. However it seems that time has only made them grow restless.
> 
> Upon hearing my prognosis (cancer, of all the absurd things that could have been the end of me)  it has has become pertinent to me that I pass these truths on to you while I have the strength–and courage–to do so.
> 
> Because today is a special day, and you are taking me to the beach. You’re bringing a towel and buckets and shovels and everything. And while I still fail to see why building a castle that is small and made of sand is supposed to make us feel better about this whole situation (its poor architectural planning, honestly), I will do it. I will do it because I honestly cannot come up with a good reason not to. Because I’m alive, and you’re alive, and today is a special day. So if you want to take me to the beach to build a sand castle, I will go with you. And I may even help; but only because I will undoubtedly be bored to tears and you will refuse to leave until you complete this meaningless task. I won’t help just because you want me to (but really it’s only because you want me to).
> 
>  
> 
> Because today is a special day.  And there are some things that you still don’t know yet.
> 
> There are still things I haven’t had the chance, nor the resolve, to tell you.
> 
> While I may be long gone once you read this, what I’m writing still needs to be read.  Because I am dying and you are not, and I am running out of time to tell you just how special that today is for me. I hope that I can muster the courage to tell you all of this in person before I actually die, because honestly it would be a damn shame for me to leave this world without having spoken aloud the thoughts that have grown to define everything about me.
> 
>  
> 
> Read closely, John.  Read closely, and remember.  
> 
>  
> 
> Remember that if years should pass and you remember that today is the anniversary of our first meeting, know that I consider it to be the most important day of my life.
> 
> The day I met you was the day I was reborn.  
> 
> I know, and I can feel your eye-roll from my grave. I’m aware of the general dramatics of the statement, and I know I tend to shy away from metaphor, but let that not get in the way of it’s truth.
> 
> Before that day, I was a great man.
> 
> Oh, don’t be dull. I don’t mean it like that. I know what you’re thinking, and you can stop it right now John Watson.  You must not take offense– For I was a great man, but the price of being great was even more so.  Because before I met you, John, I was alone.  I thought of nothing but the work and I cared about nothing but my mind because that is all I’d ever had and all that I thought I needed to make it through this life.  
> 
> I was a weirdo, a freak, a high-functioning sociopath. And I was perfectly fine with it.
> 
> Then, an ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and the most ridiculous jumper I’d ever seen hobbled into St. Barts in the wake of Mike bloody Stamford, of all people.  And with him– with you– I was given something that I never knew I would have wanted or needed.  
> 
> I was given you. I was given a friend.  
> 
> With you, I discovered that I was so much more than I had ever been.  So much more than a weirdo, a freak, a psychopath. So much more than just great.
> 
>   
>  With you, I was brilliant. 
> 
> I was incredible. I was fantastic. I was bloody magnificent, Sherlock! That was truly amazing.
> 
>   
>  Before you came along, I was a freak. I was an addict; a psychopath; a great, but lonely (so, so lonely) man who lived in a pocket darkness to protect himself from what lay just beyond it.
> 
> John– you beautiful, amazing, lovely, kind, brilliant, brave man; You brought me to the light.
> 
> You looked at me– you saw me– and instead of bristling and running from me (which I still believe would have been a smarter decision on your part), you smiled.
> 
> I’m not sure if anyone has ever told you anything about your smile, John. But you must know that when you smile at me like you do it is like being bathed in the most spectacular sunlight. It’s warm and it sparkles and makes everything in its path glitter with life. Even though that statement isn’t scientifically true (trust me, if anyone’s smile could infuse life into this dying husk, it would be yours), and even though the light it produces is so bright that it burns, I cannot help but bask in it. And even when you aren't smiling at me, I can still feel the lingering of its warmth. I can still see the impression of it dotting my vision; enough to make me want to go to absolutely ridiculous lengths to bring it back. It’s infuriating. 
> 
> I once told you that you were never the most luminous of people, and it took me entirely too long to realize how unforgivably wrong I had been.  As a conductor of light, you are still unbeatable– but you most assuredly carry a brilliance that is unique only to you.  You’re just more fastidious when it comes to who is allowed to see it.
> 
> I’m not sure I’ll ever truly be able to expess how thankful I am that you’ve let me see it.
> 
>  
> 
> Oh–
> 
> It seems my tear ducts have begun to act of their own accord (as I’m sure you’ve already noticed by the horrendous wet splotch that just ruined the entire page). My body just won’t. stop. bloody.  _failing_. me.
> 
>  
> 
> Nevertheless, I must perservere.
> 
>  
> 
> To summarize the sentiment expressed above and as idiotically cliche as this may sound, there is light in my life now. I was aprehensive at first (married to my work and all of that pretentious nonsense), which should be understandable after being stuck the dark for so long. But since it was you supplying it, I was somehow unafraid.
> 
> I was still a great man, yes.  But you made me good.
> 
> It seems that my situation has made the notion of an afterlife… desirable.
> 
> I suspect I’d feel very differently about leaving if not for the knowledge of who I was leaving behind.
> 
> It’s eerily similar to how I felt before the rooftop– the first time I knew I was going to “die”. I knew I’d be leaving you, and I was thrown by how agonizing it was. The fury and frustration (and if i’m goign to be completely honest, the pain) bubbled up to the surface and threatened to spill over at so many crucial times. But I was able to shove it down and pack it away. Because I knew I’d be seeing you again. Someday, after everything that had to be taken care of was taken care of, I’d see you again.
> 
> One day I’d see you and you’d see me and you’d be furious at first (I’d explain everything) and you’d probably hit me (I’d let you) and you might even cry (I would too but I’d never let you see it). But eventually, you’d see me and you’d smile. And that made everything worth it.
> 
> If I get to see you again, John, all of this pain and frustration and dying worth it.
> 
> For I cannot fathom a universe in which I do not love you, whether I physically exist within it or not.
> 
>  
> 
> I know, I know. So much  _sentiment_ …
> 
> My brother would be appalled.
> 
> Thankfully, Mycroft is an insufferable twit. And I’ve never paid much mind to his idiotic belief system, let alone allow myself to feel ashamed for contradicting it.
> 
>  
> 
> Nevertheless, Its time to cease my ramblings.  Judging by the sun’s progression across the page it’s been almost two hours since you left to go pick up some supplies for the day (I hope you bring a blanket; i hear the beaches are a bit chilly this time of year) and my medication. And also I hope you remember to pick up some milk, because I may have accidentally dropped the last jug). Therefore it has been one hour and fifty-two minutes since I began writing you this letter.  You should be home within the hour, and I may not be as quick on my feet as I used to be, so I’d rather like a chance to hand this off to Mrs. Hudson before you return.  
> 
> Hopefully She will remember to deliver this– if she doesn’t I promise you John I will focus all of my paranormal energy into knocking over her tray the next time she has the mailman over for tea I swear.
> 
>  
> 
> That being said, whatever happens next, if I am given any sort of choice in the matter (and even if I am not) know that I will always be with you.
> 
> So, if you should remember the significance of this day, and even if you don’t;
> 
> I beg that you remember this:
> 
>  
> 
> Remember that you were loved by me.  You were so, so loved, John. 
> 
> You made my life a happy one.
> 
> And there’s no tragedy in that.

 

 

 

With all my love, as long as the earth goes round the sun and as long as you’ll have it—

and even if you won’t,

-SH

* * *


End file.
